Chapter Text
Graduation at UA had been, in a word, underwhelming.
The ceremony was long and full of trivial speeches he doesn’t remember, aside from Momo’s lengthy, emotion-filled valedictorian address. Aizawa’s part had been so short and reluctant that it had been cut from the official graduation tape altogether--though Midoriya had kept the copy his mom recorded, so there’s still something of it out there. All Might’s speech, on the other hand, had been so grandiose and heartfelt that Shouto had gotten uncomfortable listening and had tuned out halfway through.
He remembers sitting between Shoji and Tokoyami, waiting for Principal Nedzu to call his name, walking across the stage to shake his little rodent hand and hold his diploma for the first time. He remembers Midoriya and Iida hugging him from either side, crying and promising that they’d still be best friends after they all move on in life. He remembers his mother holding his face between her hands and telling him how proud she is, and how she just knows he’ll be the best hero in the world, because he’s already hers.
He remembers that out of all of his classmates and friends, teachers and family, every person in the room… Katsuki was the only one who didn’t speak to him that day.
Katsuki--Bakugou to him back then--had stayed firmly away from the emotional stuff every which way leading up to the ceremony. As far as anyone could tell, the idea of graduating didn’t affect him at all, aside from the clear and poorly hidden excitement of joining one of the many hero agencies that had offered him a position. He hadn’t said any goodbyes yet, and it was fair of everyone to assume that he wouldn’t. After all, it’s not like they’d never see each other again. (That’s what Shouto had been telling himself, anyway.)
They’d spoken the day before graduation, after classes had wrapped up for the last time and everyone was busy packing their dorms away. All of Shouto’s belongings (save for the mattress) were jammed into a couple of cardboard boxes, ready to be picked up and delivered to his new apartment within the next week. It had been surprisingly sad, watching the room that had become his home slowly return to the blank slate it was the day he’d first set foot inside of it. He’d tried his best not to think about it as he’d walked out the door and shut it firmly behind him.
The kitchen, he thinks, was where he’d headed next. He recreates the memory in his head, piecing together the scene like a detective. There’s Momo, sitting at the counter with Tenya and Asui; Koda, Hagakure, Kaminari, Kirishima, and Ashido are crowded around the TV. (They’re watching some English drama and eating bags of chips out of the stash they’d gradually stolen from the cafeteria over the past couple of months.) In the memory, Shouto passes by quietly, not wanting to disturb their last night together. He’d just come downstairs for a cup of tea, and maybe to see if Midoriya is around before he goes to sleep for the night.
There’s a kettle on the stove already, but the water is lukewarm. Shouto places his palm on the side and heats it back to boiling, then lets it settle down as he searches for a box of tea. (He can’t remember now what kind he’d chosen.) As he’s pulling a mug down from the cabinet, he hears heavy footsteps coming from the stairs. Bakugou, he thinks before he’s even turned to look, and sure enough, it is. Dressed in his favorite skull t-shirt and a pair of gray jeans, he catches Shouto’s eye with his own and tilts his head towards the front door.
Follow me.
Shouto looks back to the kettle. He adds the tea leaves to the water and stirs it idly with a spoon, taking his time to let the flavor steep before straining it into his cup. He leaves the rest for later, cups his hands around the warm mug, and turns to follow Bakugou where he’d disappeared to just a minute ago. The warm chatter from the common room fades into the distance, replaced by cool night air and the creak of the door as it shuts behind him.
Bakugou is leaning against the railing a few feet away, looking out at the campus with an unreadable expression. He’s shivering, so Shouto goes to stand with his left side to Bakugou’s right, letting his quirk warm the air around them. They stand there in companionable quiet for a couple of minutes as Shouto sips his tea contentedly. He likes how Bakugou doesn’t always need to fill the silence between them, the way Midoriya and Uraraka sometimes do. It’s not that he minds chatter, but he appreciates the quiet just as much, and Bakugou seems to as well.
“Graduation’s tomorrow.”
Shouto turns his head to the side to look at his classmate, surprised. He hadn’t thought Bakugou was planning on talking about it, especially one-on-one. He’d been so adamant about not getting emotional the way the rest of their friends are, but maybe he’s changed his mind a little considering how close they are to leaving for good.
“It is,” he agrees, leaning forward against the railing as well. “You’re staying in Japan?” (He knows the answer, but he still wants to hear it out loud.)
Bakugou snorts. “I’m not gonna pull a Deku and fuck off to America for God knows how long. I’ve gotta top the hero charts here before I can tackle other countries.”
“Deku’s not the only one who’s leaving,” Shouto points out. Aoyama is returning to France for a few months before he decides where to settle down, and a few of the students from 1-B have announced partnerships with foreign agencies over the last couple of weeks as well. Lots of heroes move overseas after graduation, to join other agencies or for a better chance in the rankings. It isn’t uncommon.
“You’re not, right?” Bakugou turns to side-eye him, something between annoyance and worry twisting the corner of his mouth. “I thought you signed with that newbie agency last month.”
“N3A isn’t a newbie agency,” Shouto protests. “They’re completely professional.”
“And tiny.”
“Remind me to say the same to you when you start your own agency,” Shouto needles. Bakugou cracks a grin and reaches over to shove Shouto lightly in the arm.
“Shut up, asshole,” he huffs. “So, whatever, they’re not a newbie agency. They’re still keeping you in Japan, right?”
“Yeah,” Shouto tells him. “In Tokyo. A little ways from Best Jeanist’s agency, but I’m sure we’ll still see each other around.”
“You sayin’ I’ll never escape you?”
“Never.”
Bakugou’s grin grows wider, and Shouto smiles into his next slurp of tea. It’s warm and… sweet. It must have been a sweet tea, because he remembers the scent of sugar in the air.
“I didn’t know you had such a strong attachment to Japan,” he says as he lowers his cup, looking first at the stars above them, then at Bakugou’s face. His eyes are still trained on Shouto, glimmering. “I mean, rankings are rankings, aren’t they? I thought you’d jump at the chance to dominate another country’s top ten, even if you haven’t bested Japan’s yet.”
“Yeah, well…” Bakugou looks down and then back up, and the look on his face has Shouto’s stomach clenching in a way he doesn’t understand. “I got my reasons.”
“Do you?” Shouto murmurs, unsurely. Bakugou drapes his arm over the railing, hand curled loosely with the fingers pointed towards Shouto. It’s casual, but Shouto knows he means something by it. Bakugou is purposeful--every action he takes has a reason behind it. He doesn’t do things by accident.
“Guess something’s keeping me in Japan,” Bakugou says, with all the misplaced casualness in the world. For someone so blunt, he has a bad habit of beating around the bush, or expecting everyone to be on the same page as him at all times. Shouto opens his mouth to prod for an explanation that actually makes sense , but Bakugou is speaking again before he has a chance to.
“Anyway, I guess it’s inevitable that we’ll keep working together,” he says with a huff. “Good thing you’ve actually been training these past few years. No way am I letting you drag me down if we get caught up in a fight together.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.” Shouto takes another sip of tea. Maybe it was cinnamon. He recalls tasting spice.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
Looking over, he expects to see Bakugou rolling his eyes or making a mocking blah blah blah motion with his hand. But Bakugou looks surprisingly earnest for once, like he hadn’t meant it sarcastically at all. There’s a lull in the conversation as they watch each other, and after enjoying the silence for a while Shouto opens his mouth to speak–
–but before he can say anything, his grip on the teacup loosens and it slips through his fingers, crashing against the deck and sending rivulets of hot tea and shards of ceramic china shooting in every direction.
The crash is loud in his ears as it breaks the delicate silence of the night. Shouto sucks in a sharp breath, eyes wide, barely hesitating a second before he’s dropping to his knees to pick up the ceramic shards--and Bakugou catches him halfway there, before his legs even have a chance to hit the ground. His hands wrap around Shouto’s shoulders, slipping to his biceps, fingers digging into the material of his sweatshirt too violently.
“Are you fucking serious?!” he barks, his face terribly close to Shouto’s, eyebrows drawn and teeth grit. Shouto just stares back, confused, the teacup temporarily forgotten. Bakugou is angry. He’s so angry over a teacup. It isn’t expensive, it isn’t even his , but he looks so hurt, so hurt, so–
–angry. That’s all it is. Bakugou is always angry, and Shouto is always somehow making it worse. Before he can go and dig himself a deeper grave than he already has, Bakugou is pulling him to his feet and drawing away. He shoves his hands roughly into his pockets and hunches his shoulders as he turns towards the dorm entrance, keeping his eyes trained on the ground rather than meeting Shouto’s gaze.
“Just- just take care of yourself, Todoroki,” he says roughly, and Shouto really can’t tell if it’s a suggestion, a request, or a command. He means to ask, he does , because the last five minutes have been more confusing than the entirety of Present Mic’s English classes over the last three years and he doesn’t get why Bakugou cares so much. But Bakugou is gone in the blink of an eye, leaving Shouto alone with a broken cup and a question he can’t quite sound out in his head.
Take care of yourself, Todoroki? he thinks as he stands in the cold and watches the door. He stays put for an immeasurable period of time, waiting for an explanation. Waiting to apologize. Waiting for Bakugou to come back and say goodnight–say goodbye.
Bakugou never comes. He never gets the answers he wants.
It’s the last time they speak for three years.